


Hell

by Cosmignon



Category: Dice funk
Genre: just started writing it before bed and the angst it floweth, this ones all short and sad didnt meant for that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-07
Updated: 2017-10-07
Packaged: 2019-01-10 06:16:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12293046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cosmignon/pseuds/Cosmignon
Summary: In hell, there was no fire, no brimstone...





	Hell

“Let me go!” the angry, resentful yell was met with no reply.

Mardis struggled to break free from the chains that bound him, refusing to admit defeat even as he couldn’t lift his arms away from his chest, couldn’t get his feet back on the ground. A grand set of doors that towered over him opened, and more chains slinked out from the depths.

“Let go, _now!_ ” he spat, again to no response aside from the echos of his own anger bouncing off the stone walls.

The angel, that cold statue, was dragging him further into his tower as he clutched the bullet wound on his shoulder. Mardis hoped it hurt like hell. He knew that with any luck, that was where the angel was about to throw him into.

Through his continued struggles, Mardis caught sight of a plain, brilliantly polished mirror descending from the ceiling of a tall, spiraling staircase. As it lowered to his level, he caught a glimpse of his dire plight from another point of view.

He was bound, he was helpless, and everything he had done had been for nothing. The angel was standing behind him, standing over him, standing tall as he watched his victim take one last look at his life. There was an inexplicable, menacing look in his eyes.

He had wanted this to be the last thing Mardis ever saw.

It was the end, and Mardis shut his eyes tightly to brace for whatever the angel had in store for him.

And there was nothing.

When Mardis opened his eyes, he saw nothing.

_Nothing_.

And then he felt the ground beneath his feet. Not as if he had been floating, but as if he hadn’t been standing until then. It was… something. _But what exactly?_

Then his ears began ringing, he could hear, but god what was it? Was he hearing nothing?

No, it wasn’t _just_ nothing. There was his breathing, heavy and pained. His heart beating so hard he could feel it in his ears.

He looked down, and saw himself. No more chains, the pistol clutched tightly in his hand just as it had been before. That was something, he was himself.

Then what was this _nothing_ around him? He still saw only white space. Piercing, burning hot white that mocked him, infuriated him. He turned, and turned, and turned, trying to see anything beyond it, until he finally spotted a figure just a short distance away. 

He stepped forward, to reach out toward this oasis of solid form, but stopped in his tracks as he saw who that figure was.

It was himself. Mardis Valamin was standing, gun drawn. Color and form spread out from where he stood until it was recognizable as the tower he had just been trapped in. In the abstractions, the form of the angel also appeared, causing one Mardis to freeze, and the other to fire.

Mardis’ heart pounded even harder as he witnessed his own imprisonment, chains once again wrapping around him, out from a distance, the angel standing so tall.

The Mardis bound in chains suddenly turned toward the other, causing him to instinctively pull up his own gun to defend himself against this nightmarish illusion.

_“I had one chance… one chance and I blew it,”_ the illusion spoke in his voice, pained by regret and constricted breathing.

Mardis forced himself to slowly lower his pistol by pushing it down with his free hand.

“What…. what are you talking about?” he had his own trouble breathing as he tried to make sense of everything.

_“I should’ve aimed at his heart, no hesitation,”_ the illusion choked, _“I can’t believe how stupid I am!”_

“I… I wasn’t expecting, ” Mardis sputtered, “he, he caught me off guard, I would have…” would he?

_“It’s all my fault Uncle Lucas is trapped here,”_ the illusion gasped, and wept, or maybe Mardis wept.

It was too much to bare, watching himself like this. Mardis turned away from his failure, to escape, but to no avail.

All around him now, more figures and buildings and rooms and landscapes and pictures and thoughts rose up from nowhere and consumed his vision.

Mardis pushed his uncle away, berated him for being so tepid and unsure of his own invention.

_“He was being stubborn, what else could I do? Maybe I drove him away, that’s why things escalated out of control.”_

He stood before his father, who sat on a throne next to three vacant ones, as he handed him two silver swords.

_“I couldn’t leave Father without warning him. I should have said more. I should have acted faster.”_

More and more his own voice flooded around him. He cheated, he lied, he took advantage, he waited too long, he jumped in without thinking, he kept secrets, he couldn’t shut up.

He was rash,

inconsiderate,

haughty,

foolish,

cowardly,

loathesome.

Mardis couldn’t respond to anything around him. It was too much. A lump welled up in his throat as tears blurred all of these images into one smear of failure. Everything was too much. Instead of sobbing, he screamed, only able to tell his voice was his own because he felt his throat tense up from the strain.

In hell, there was no fire, no brimstone, just painful and inescapable truth.


End file.
